


My King

by PeaceMinusMOTTE



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 12:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17867156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeaceMinusMOTTE/pseuds/PeaceMinusMOTTE
Summary: A tactical discussion gets a little hands on...





	My King

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting for The Hobbit fandom, but I've always loved writing in the universe Tolkien created, so I'm finally sharing this one with the world. It's also the first time I'm posting smut on here too~ Also, my friend (on AO3 as Ceo_panda) helped a lot during this, so big thanks to her!

Thranduil's patience was being tested. Again. Not only did he have to deal with this dwarf business, but now he had to discuss tactics with a human.

 _Although,_ he thought, _it could be far worse than this._

The man wasn’t as unreasonable as the Dwarves, as expected. What wasn’t expected was the respectful manner in which he conducted himself. Men were filthy, unpolished creatures, so much so that Thranduil felt himself lose some majesty whenever he came upon one. They couldn’t ever hope to recognise his divinity, much less appreciate it. But this man - he did not challenge the Elf king’s words. He nodded and hummed in agreement, only speaking when spoken to. 

Darkness fell quickly upon them, and lanterns were lit in each corner of the stone room, bare but for a rotting wooden table over which the man and the Elf spoke.

Bard feined interest as Thranduil talked. He was far more concerned with finding a flaw in the face of the other. He knew his efforts would be in vain, of course - Elves are nothing if not visual perfection - and yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away. He mentally mapped out each aspect of Thranduil’s face. The eyebrows knitted together with concern, the searching, wandering eyes, the pallid lips. From Thorin’s curt description of the king, Bard had expected his face to be void of emotion, but it seemed that was proved false. Thranduil was an elegant, untouchable being who’s movements were as fluid and languid as a lake. Bard so badly wanted to ruin him.

At this point, every word Thranduil spoke was meaningless. It was nothing but a soft buzzing in the back of Bard’s mind. He was losing his head due to what he only knew as lust. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to control himself. The Elf king fell silent for a moment, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple.

“Perhaps we should continue in the morning. Men need sleep, do they not?” Even when uttering the simplest of things, Thranduil still managed to sound as condescending as ever. It was exhausting Bard’s sanity. As the king made his way to the door - almost floating on air, he moved so seamlessly - Bard reached out and hastily took hold of him by the wrist. Thranduil immediately lurched away, raising his hand and hissing as though he was burned by fire.

“Stay,” Bard uttered, moving towards the Elf again. Thranduil sneered.

“You would bid me stay after such an act? Perhaps I overestimated your intelligence.”

“This has nothing to do with intelligence, my Lord.”

“Ha, ‘my Lord’, as though I’d ever stoop so low as to be a king of men. Lay your hands upon me again, and I shall end you right here.”

Bard dismissed Thranduil’s words and sprang upon him, gripping him tightly by the shoulders and spinning them both. They ended up an odd sight, a man holding down an Elven king by the small of his back, bent over the old table. Thranduil struggled, but could not get free. Bard chuckled.

“I’m sure you noticed my lingering eyes since you first arrived here.”

“You watched me as a firedrake watches its gold,” Thranduil stretched out his arms, much like how a cat would stretch.

“And now that this firedrake has its gold… what am I to do with it?” When the king fell silent, Bard continued. “How is it that such a force of nature has come under the grasp of one from the lowly race of man? Surely, with all the power he possesses, the Elf could best me within mere moments.”

“Do not refer to me in that way. I am not merely “an Elf”.”

“Thranduil…” Bard tested the name on his tongue. “You may be a king, but you are not _my_ king.” And with that, Bard proceeded to roughly remove the robes of the creature. He did not struggle, simply sighed at the feeling of cool air hitting his now bare skin. Bard looked upon his work in awe.

It was not at all fit for an Elf, certainly not a creature of his stature. Although Bard did find a twisted beauty in the contrast of the Elven king's perfection against the ruined tabletop. The dim light beckoned shadows to lick at Thranduil's unblemished face.

"I can barely believe I've let something as filthy as you lay your hands on me.”

"Surely you get tired of those dainty hands belonging to your race? Don't you wish for something... more dangerous?" Bard spoke softly as he let his fingertips graze Thranduil's back. He needn't raise his voice however; the Elf heard everything. The shift of his robes pooled at his feet, the ragged breathing of the Bowman, even his own racing heartbeat. His pale skin burned, sensitive to the touch. Thranduil gasped as Bard gripped his hips suddenly.

"I should have you cover your hands... Touching my skin even briefly is a blessing," he muttered.

"A blessing I wish to have bestowed upon me day after day." Bard brought three fingers to Thranduil’s face as he spoke. “Suck,” he commanded, quieter than a mouse. And the king obeyed. His tongue laved over the digits as he wetted them well, aware of where they’d be ending up. Bard let his free hand travel the length of the Elf’s body, caressing the silky smooth skin.

“Tell me,” he pulled his now soaking fingers away, circling the small hole presented to him. “What exactly do you want from that mountain? Surely the Elves of Mirkwood have all the gold they could ask for.”

Thranduil let out a deep sigh as one finger pushed inside. He allowed himself a moment to compose an answer before replying. “There are jewels, from years ago, that I commissioned the Dwarves to forge for me but-” he choked on his words as another finger slipped inside too quickly. “But they were never returned,” he brought a hand back to his hip and covered Bard’s own. 

Bard ripped his hand from under Thranduil’s, leaning over the expanse of his back to growl a “Do not touch me,” into his ear. The movements caused his fingers to jerk roughly inside the Elf, and he released a strangled whine. His pale cheeks flushed red with shame.

“I didn’t know Elves could make such pretty sounds,” Bard’s breathing was laboured as he forced in the third and final finger. Thranduil rose on his tiptoes and clawed at the table, but kept himself quiet this time. “Oh, you learned your lesson?” Bard chuckled darkly, watching the king’s back muscles contract and convulse as he twisted and spread his fingers. However, he quickly became impatient. Bard wrenched his fingers from the puckering hole and grasped the Elf by his luscious hair, bringing him to stand up straight, arm across his front.

"Those jewels you desire, why should I risk my people for them?" Bard whispered, running his hands over the other's chest, pushing himself against the king.

Thranduil could barely steady his voice, and it caught in his throat when he heard the telltale sound of clothing being removed.

"Don't you think I'd look purely sinful in them-" his breath left him as he felt his lower half almost split open, intruded by something foreign. Thranduil’s voice betrayed him, letting out a groan. Every inch he took ached, stretched his passageway and made him burn. It was painful, but it was the best pain the Elven king had ever endured.

Bard refused to wait for Thranduil, immediately thrusting deep. He was trying to elicit the sweetest sounds from the Elf, but said Elf was adamant that he wouldn’t give in. The Bowman’s member pushed in and out slowly, and they rocked their hips together until Bard apparently had enough and slammed the king back onto the table aggressively. This prompted nothing more than a sharp grunt as flesh met wood, much to Bard’s frustration. He began thrusting wildly, moving slightly each time until he hit his prize - and he knew he’d it hit because Thranduil cried out uncontrollably. It broke the proverbial dam, the Elf letting out high pitched pants with each thrust, and then squirming and moaning when his most sensitive spot was hit.

Neither one of them believed it would last long, between Thranduil’s desperate cries and Bard’s brutal thrusts, the end was approaching. Or, it was approaching for Thranduil at least. He felt the heat from down in his toes to the tips of his fingers and it burst from within. His cum splattered all over the table and an embarrassingly loud squeal ripped itself from his throat. Bard slowed and eventually pulled his member out of the king who stood on shaky legs. No more than a few seconds could have passed before the man spun Thranduil, lifting him by the thighs to lay him down on the table.

Thranduil protested weakly, unable to form full sentences, as he felt his own essence stick in his hair and to his back. “Please-” was the last word he croaked out before he was penetrated again, oversensitivity claiming him, wrecking the Elven king. His hands grasped at what was in reach - his own hair - and pulled and pulled until the pain in his scalp diluted the pain in his lower regions. He couldn’t think coherently, nevermind beg for mercy.

Even if Thranduil had been able to beg, it’s doubtful Bard would have listened. He had two slender legs locked around his neck, his pace fast and merciless and he drank in every cry he drew from the king greedily. He felt all-powerful as he watched the beautiful, intelligent creature before him fall apart. Bard took pride in ruining one of the most dangerous kings of Middle-Earth, reducing such a perfect being to something filthy and pathetic.

Bard felt his release in his stomach - a heated coil about to unravel. He didn’t withhold himself and spilt generously into Thranduil, who whined at the unexpected heat inside. Bard removed his member and immediately set about clothing his chilled body. The Elf fell silent, unmoving. Bard tapped his finger on an exposed thigh, prompting the king to meet his gaze.

“I suppose I can inquire about those jewels for you,” was all he said before leaving.

Thranduil sighed, still lying upon the table. Slowly, his body was being bathed in a gentle morning light peeking from the minuscule window. Cum was beginning to drip from his hole, and all he could bring himself to think was;

“Men really are the filthiest of creatures.”

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive feedback is always welcome! Thank you for reading~


End file.
